


Home is Just a Phone Call Away

by missmollyetc



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Incest, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I enjoy our little chats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Just a Phone Call Away

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dira ( [](http://dsudis.livejournal.com/profile)[**dsudis**](http://dsudis.livejournal.com/) ) for the beta, and for letting me riff on her world for a little bit. And may I also thank my love of the gay, gay porn, without which this fic would not have been made.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [numb3rs](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/numb3rs)  
---|---  
  
_ **NUMB3RS FIC: Home is Just a Phone Call Away** _

Title: Home is Just a Phone Call Away

Pairing: Don/Coop, Charlie/Don/Coop

Rating: NC-17

Warning(s): Inappropriate use of a cell phone. Kind of. I mean, it was _there._

Summary: I enjoy our little chats.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Dira ( [](http://dsudis.livejournal.com/profile)[**dsudis**](http://dsudis.livejournal.com/) ) for the beta, and for letting me riff on her world for a little bit. And may I also thank my love of the gay, gay porn, without which this fic would not have been made.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, SOOOOO not mine, but I like to play and—really—I promise to put them back _exactly_ as I found them.

 

 

There's on a case and off it, but the trying times lie in between when the Bureau hasn't seen fit to send them a new bad guy. Tonight, all that he and Don have to do is sit and fucking spin, while their senior processing agent gets his ass in gear and finds them a new case. Until they get the call, there's nothing much on the menu but catching up on all the drinking they can't do on the road. And he and Don've got a lot of catching up to do.

"Hey!" Coop yells. "Two of Jose and leave the bottle!"

Hank The Barkeep slings his hand up in response, popping a beer cap with the other. Hank's all right, always willing to hold the money when Don gets uppity about his darts scores and has to be put in his place, and quick with the drinks.

Coop settles back on his stool. The bar's changed since he and Don started coming over, more professionals looking for a taste of something rough than workers looking to kick back, but change is the price you pay for living on the road, and Coop's used to it by now. Don's learning fast too, and if some days it seems more like he's running from something rather than running towards anything, then that's fine too. He ain't the first.

But right now is them kicking back between cases and so there's booze and peanuts and watching Don try to be all neat and tidy with both. He's up three beers to Coop's four, but the tequila ought to sort them both out. Man's gotta learn to hold his liquor.

Coop catches himself nodding to the damn pop rock pounding out from the speakers until two shots dutifully appear in front of him, a little ashtray—clean, 'cause Hank knows Coop's particular—full of limes and a half full bottle holding up the rearguard. Don groans, dropping his head in his hands, and Coop throws his head back and laughs. He ain't drunk enough to be stupid, but just enough that the waiting isn't crawling under his skin like ants. It's a good feeling, one Coop likes to hold on to when he can, and, if he's not going to bury his jitters in Don just yet, then Senor Cuervo will just have to fill in.

A girl's breasts brush against his back, soft press of flesh, and then disappear as she makes her way through the crowd. He turns his head to watch the sway of her ass.

Don's boot knocks into his ankle, shoving Coop's foot off the metal rest. He kicks back, catching the sole of Don's boot with his metal covered toes. He takes the shot and throws it back, smacking the glass end over end on the bar while Don follows suit. The liquor burns nicely all the way down his throat, slick warmth curling around in his chest like oily smoke. He pincers the slice of lime and squirts juice into his open mouth, rubbing the sour liquid into his gums with the point of his tongue. Don licks his lips and grins at him, hair flopping over his forehead.

"Fuckin' hippie," Coop smirks.

He reaches out and flicks Don's bangs off his forehead. Don ducks his head to look over the bar, and it's only because they're sitting so close that Coop can see his partner blush. Don scratches his stomach, pours himself another shot and drinks it down. He glances over.

Coop smiles, biting the pulp from the lime and wiggling the rind between his teeth. Don makes a face, eyes too close to liquid, and his fingers drum on the sticky table. Nice, long fingers and their baby calluses feel damn good wrapped around Coop's cock.

Pity they're in the wrong bar for body shots, 'cause Don's abs are built to have salt licked off them. Coop swallows the pulp and spits the lime rind on the floor, narrowly missing some urban cowboy's pointed toe. The guy bristles, balling his fists at either side of his designer jeans, but Coop opens his jacket, showing heat, and Don looks up, putting his hand to his side holster like a good wingman, and the weekend wonder disappears back into the crowd.

Well. The kind of people they let in these days.

Hank raps on the bar behind them. They turn and Hank's taken the bottle back.

"You're done," he shouts. "What did I tell you about bringing guns into my bar?"

Coop looks over, fixing his grin so his teeth don't show so much and Don shakes his head, biting the corner of his mouth when he should be biting Coop's. He puts both hands on the table, trigger finger tapping a neat rhythm on a drink coaster. Coop resettles his shoulder holster, shifting the leather to a better position. The space between his shoulder blades itches.

"Now, we are _trained--_"

Hank reaches underneath the bar where he keeps the baseball bat, and suddenly it's all too much trouble to argue. The paperwork alone'd kill his will to live. Coop straightens up, punching Don in the shoulder hard enough to rock him back on the stool, and plants an arm around that same shoulder when Donny boy sways back within reach.

"Hey," he shouts above the music.

"What?" Don yells back.

"I _think_," Coop says, "that our fat lady is singin'."

"That so?" Don asks. His breath warms Coop's cheek. "Thought I heard someone whining."

"On the tab, Hank," Coop says, turning his face just that little bit into Don's.

He might be a little drunker than he'd thought. Coop jerks his head in the direction of the door. They slide off their stools together, leaning on each other for balance, and the crowd, gone all quiet for some reason, parts for them all the way to the door.

Night air in Phoenix—yeah, they're in Phoenix this week—is dry and cold. The wind draws goosebumps out of his skin and he tugs Don closer for the warmth. The truck's parked at the end of the lot in the new car spot so some drunk pencil pusher doesn't ding his baby all to fuck, but the expressway overhang makes it hard to see his Ford in the dark. This city needs better street lamps.

Of course, if Phoenix _did_ have better lighting then Coop couldn't slide his palm across Don's crotch out in front of Hank's bar and get away with it barring a glass-eyed glare from Don himself. So, chalk one up for poor city planning.

Don glares, but he doesn't move away, and Coop strokes his thumb up and down Don's zipper, turning to walk backwards down the line of cars to the truck. He leads Don like that, arm around his shoulders and a hand on his rising cock, and Don follows sweet as pie, breathing steam into the air and dampening the neck of Coop's t-shirt.

"You too drunk?" Coop asks.

His back hits the truck's grill two seconds before Don's riding his hip. Don moans, licking his lips until they shine and Coop can't help it. He twists his head to the side, sucking on Don's lower lip until the groan rumbles out of his alcohol-soaked throat and straight between Coop's lips, slick as Don's tongue. Don presses closer, fingers tugging at Coop's belt loops and holding them tight together. He licks Coop's mouth and presses inside, curling his tongue around Coop's and sucking.

The truck's grill bites the hell of out of Coop's lower back. He arches forward, straight into Don's cock and Coop's dick perks right the fuck up, pressing against his zipper. Coop groans, breaking the kiss.

"Inside," he says, licking a stripe of Don's neck and biting behind his ear. "Get in the damn truck."

Don yanks him off the grill by the waistband, rifling his pockets for the keys, until Coop finally smacks his way free and does it himself. He sets Don up against the passenger's side door and digs under his jacket in the magazine carrier of his shoulder holster.

He hooks the keychain with his finger and draws it out with a flourish. Don grins, pushing his hair off his face, and the strands tangle around his fingers. Coop swallows air, coughing while he fumbles to unlock the door. He has to reach around Don to do it and misses twice when Don bites his earlobe.

"Fuck me," he whispers. "Take me out and _fuck_ me, _God_."

Blood pounds down Coop's body, boiling in his veins. Don always asks so nicely, too. He jerks the door open, barely managing to grab the keys from the lock, and climbs inside, pulling Don behind him with a hand on the back of the boy's neck. Don jumps up, slamming the door shut behind them, and those fucking legs of his get tangled up in Coop's knees in the footwell. Their mouths collide, slip and slide off with a scrape of teeth. Don moans, twisting until he's straddling Coop's lap. His hands fly to the side of the car seat for balance.

"Not…gonna fit," Don mumbles, and Coop laughs up into his mouth.

"That's what they all say," he says.

Don's hand detaches from the seat and smacks him upside the head, knocking their foreheads together.

"Damn it!"

Coop winces, drawing back. He reaches under the seat, fumbling for the latch and the back of the seat reclines, not flat but enough so's Don's head isn't ruining his ceiling with all the fucking goop GQ puts in his hair.

"Better _now_?" he asks, grabbing Don's ass in one hand.

Don nods his head, narrowing his eyes and wriggling closer. Coop brings his other hand up, and thumbs open the button fly of Don's jeans, popping the buttons in between rubbing Don's cock through the hole in his boxers. He bucks upwards, timing his thrusts with the movements of his hand. Don's lips open on a breath and stay open on a whine. He jerks forward and back, ducking his head down until Coop can take that clever mouth with his, licking into the corners until sparks fly in his vision.

Quick, clever hands run down his zipper, pushing his pants aside and yanking down his waistband. His cock pops out the top, and Don gets a hand around the shaft, holding tightly. Coop bites down hard on Don's upper lip, drawing him closer and rocking forward.

Traffic, a fucking _convoy_ of eighteen wheelers, roars above them. The rumble loud enough that Coop almost misses the warning chime. He nips Don's lip again, kissing the mark and biting it warm so that Don's shiver passes back and forth between their bodies and—there. It is. Again.

He squeezes Don's ass, sliding his hand to the front of Don's jeans. He slides two fingers inside and drags out the phone.

"Think you should get that?"

"I will _kill_ you," Don says, rearing his head back.

Eyes wide enough to fall into, and sweat plasters his dark hair to his pale forehead, right next to the fading bruise on his temple from some backwater punk out of San Jose. His lips are swollen, bitten dark and Coop watches Don lick his chops, lingering in the small cut at the swell of his top lip. He thrusts against Coop's grip, pushing Coop's wrist back until it complains.

The phone rings in Coop's other hand. The display shows an out of state number, so it ain't work.

Coop pushes send and holds the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

Staticky silence and he's just about to hang up and fuck whoever for dialing a wrong number, but somebody coughs.

"Umm, hello? Is Donny—uh, is Don there?"

"Don? You mean Don Eppes?" Coop asks.

The voice is male and young, a bit nasal, but not too bad. Maybe Don's been holding out on him. He dips his hand inside Don's boxers, scratching through the crinkly hair and curls his hand around Don's cock, pulling it out into the air as he strokes the shaft. Don's frown trembles, drink and sex and annoyance fighting to cap the pyramid.

"Yeah…Don. My brother," the voice says.

"Oh! Your _brother_," Coop says.

Don stops moving, freezing mid-stroke, so Coop pushes up into the tunnel of Don's fist instead. He tugs Don's cock, hefting it in his hand and sliding a nail into the circumcision scar.

"So you're…"

"Charlie," the kid says. "I'm Don's little brother."

"Right, _Charlie_, I--"

Don moans. Just a little, just a tight, low exhalation of breath, but Coop's close enough that he can hear it like the click of a safety coming off. He can see the bob of Don's Adam's apple and feel the jerk of Don's cock, precome squirting over his thumb.

It's Coop's turn to freeze, looking down at the cock in his hand and the black sink of Don's eyes, looking at the phone. Don licks his lips, biting the small cut until a drop of blood slides down to the corner of his mouth. All the air in the truck is suddenly siphoning out.

"Shit, Donny," he breathes, and the Eppes brothers react.

"Is Don _there--_"

Don snarls, reaching for the phone and Coop lunges, slamming Don up and back on to the dash, cramming forward and jabbing until he's got Don pinned. Don bucks his hips, grimacing, and Coop tightens his grip on his cock. Their lips are inches apart. Coop holds the phone tight to his ear.

'Is he hot?' probably isn't what Don wants to hear right now, but it's the first thing that pops into Coop's hazed-out mind. There's shit been up with Don ever since Coop's known him, but Coop didn't think it'd be this…creeped out and fucked up and Don's fucking paler than _milk_. He's stiff though, harder than ever, and just starting to whine in the back of his throat. This Charlie must be something, must be special, because Don doesn't step out of line unless it's worth it, and even then it's like the guy can't just unclench and let it ride.

"No," he says. "Don's not here. I'm just holding it for him. Guy needs his private time, you know?"

Don's teeth flash, breath hisses between them. Coop sticks out his tongue and licks the blood from Don's lip. He grinds up, pushing Don back until his neck must be screaming at him and the angle's fucked, but he's still got Don's cock, hard and wet in his hand. Shit, he needs to think, or sober up some, but Don's hard, leaking all over his hand, and Charlie's talking again.

"Yeah, I guess," Charlie says.

Don's eyes flick to the phone. His nostrils flare.

"Can I--take a message?" Coop asks.

He moves his fingers on Don's cock, traces the pumping vein to the velvet heat of Don's sac and Don's eyelids flutter over the growing panic in his eyes. His mouth opens, trembling with the effort not to make a sound. He shakes his head.

"That would be great," Charlie says, all eager little boy.

Don said he had a younger brother, but the voice isn't really matching the tone. This is a young man on the line.

"Be happy to write it down," Coop says, barely slurring his words at all.

"Could you just tell him…"

Charlie's voice fades out a bit, because Don's hips are swaying into Coop's grip like he can't help but move. He's got his eyes closed now, mouth shaping some word—maybe a name—that sure as hell doesn't belong to Coop. His hand, trapped beneath Coop's bulk, starts to squeeze in a different rhythm, while the other wraps around Coop's side and digs his nails into Coop's jacket.

"…and I won the competition, well, it wasn't really a _competition_ more like a graduate exhibition on Automorphic Forms, where specifically I _kicked_ the Caltech team's collective _asses_ by showing how the essence of Tate's Thesis can be expressed through distribution theory on the adele group of K transforming under the action of the ideles by a given c has dimension!"

Coop finds himself laughing, shaking his head and circling his nails around the slit in Don's cock. Don shakes beneath him, caught half-way between slack-jawed and angry, but his eyes are open, flicking from Coop's mouth to his eyes and back to the phone in an endless loop. It's making Coop dizzy.

"That sounds like quite the feat, professor," Coop says, pushing up with his hips. "Why don't you tell me more?"

"I—really?" Charlie asks, so surprised that Coop wonders just how often the kid hears those words from people. "And you'll tell Don?"

"Every word," Coop says. "It'll be like he was there. So…who's this Adele? She cute?"

Don stops breathing, eyes stretching into cartoon territory, and Coop takes the opportunity to lean close, nuzzling his way up Don's neck to bite his jaw. He covers the receiver with his fingers and holds the phone up to Don's ear. Don shakes, trying to jerk his head away, but Coop presses the plastic hard to his skull and Don stops fighting. Coop strokes hard, jerking Don's cock and Don's shaking, tense muscles and no where to go but where Coop wants him. The volume's up and they're pressed against each other so that Charlie's tinny little voice comes through loud and clear.

"Who? Oh no, adele's not a person--"

Don shifts, taking a deep breath. Coop falls back in the seat, and Don tumbles down on top of him.

"--She's—I mean, _it's_ an algebraic group, a topological group specifically defined by an algebraic group G over a number field K--"

"Yeah, K," Coop mutters, parting his fingers so that sound can pass through to the phone. "You mentioned that."

He squeezes his fingers shut again, and uses the phone as a prod, turning Don's head so that their mouths brush. He kisses Don all soft touches and slow burn, pushing at Don's lips until they part and dipping in with his tongue. Don angles his head so the phone presses between them. He's trembling from crown to toes, skin hotter than a furnace, and his cock's leaking in Coop's hand.

"…consists of the points of G having values in A, of course, but it gets kind of complicated if G isn't a linear algebraic group because if G's an abelian variety then there's a technical problem…"

Don hisses, thrusting down as far as he can. Coop's got electricity running through his veins now, shooting in time with the scrape of Don's hand on his cock. Don pants, shaking his head, and something wet and salty falls in Coop's mouth.

"It's okay," Coop says. "Fuck, it's okay."

"Charlie," Don says loudly. "God, Coop, _Charlie--_"

"Of course, then it's maybe useful with Tamagawa numb—Don? Don, is that you?"

Coop's fingers loosen. Don rips the phone from his hand, holding tightly like it's going to jump out of his fist. He crams it back to his ear, lowering his chin to his chest and wriggling enough to make Coop's eyes roll back in his head. He wraps an arm around Don's back to keep him close.

"Charlie, damn it," Don says, grinding into the tunnel of Coop's hand. "Charlie, you're not supposed—God, you're not supposed to _call_..."

"Is that why I keep getting your damn machine at your apartment? Or—who is that? What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing," Don says, groaning.

His voice cracks right down the middle, rough as sandpaper and savage. Coop hooks a leg over Don's hip, rocking into him and Don burns into his skin, mouth a brand up and down his neck.

"Coop's _fucking_ me," he says, "or I'm fucking him and—oh God, yes, oh it's good right now. It's really good, and _where are you?_

"Don, I--"

"Are you touching yourself?" he asks, sugar bubbling out of the break in his voice and it looks like it hurts him, but the syrup drips from his lips and down into Coop's gut. He braces his feet and drives upward, getting to the good friction right in the hollow of Don's hip.

"Don," Charlie says and his voice is getting deeper, smoothing out like dark rum with a sweet bite at the end. "I'm—I'm in my dorm."

Don groans and bucks. Coop closes his eyes and an image of a younger Don—do they look alike?—pops into his head, alone in his dorm room, listening to two people fuck over the phone.

"You should be," he says. "Say you will, Charlie, say you'll think of me, of me and Coop and you'll touch yourself."

Silence. Don moans, writhes into Coop's lap like he's trying to burrow into Coop's skin and he can't think how fucked everything suddenly is because Don's hot and squirming against his cock and with a little more room they could be fucking for _real_ and—

"I'm always thinking of you," Charlie says, "I lay down at night and I want you lying next to me. You remember my senior year at Princeton? Remember how you came early and--"

Tinny, soft pants reach Coop's ears. His eyes fly open and Don's grinning, triumphant and bloody, teeth gleaming. He rocks hard down into Coop's fist.

"Do it like I did it," Don orders. "Just like I did, against your door."

"Yes, yes," Charlie says and the phone's between them. Don's slumping over Coop's chest, biting at his jacket's collar as he moves.

"Don," Charlie says. "Don, Don."

"Hard and fast," Don says, spitting cotton between his teeth. "Tight as you can get it. It's me, and I'm touching you, holding you against me in your stupid dorm bed. I'm holding on so hard you can feel me against your ass, feel--"

"I can," Charlie interrupts, and his moan heads straight to Coop's cock. "I _can_. It's been so _long…._"

"I know, baby, but do it right, circle right around the head and back. Do it fast because your roommate's coming and we have to _move_."

Coop groans. He can see it in his head, Don holding lil'Don up against his cock, fucking between his little brother's legs while Charlie whines and pulls his cock with long, clever fingers and holds the phone to his ear for dear life. He grabs Don's ass with both hands, grinding hard and fast until he hears plastic creak and springs screech and then Don growls into his neck, biting the skin above a new-ish scar and Coop's arching and sparking and shooting off onto Don's chest with a roar in his head that sounds like Don's name.

He slumps back onto the seat, licking the sweat from Don's skin and breathing in the smell of their sex and Don's hips pump up and back, stuttering in the slick mess on their bellies. Don thrusts forward and stills, shouting once and falling boneless onto Coop's chest.

He's got the phone to his ear still, curling his head beneath Coop's chin and resting there.

"Charlie?" he calls softly.

"Don," his brother answers quietly. "I'm…I came. I could hear you and—and _Coop_ and--"

"I know," Don says. "You feeling sleepy, buddy?"

"…Yeah."

"Okay…we'll let you go then," Don says. "You go to sleep."

"I—yeah, okay."

Coop puts his arms around Don's back and squeezes. Charlie's voice is losing its dark edge, draining of color and taste like someone shot a hole in the rum bottle. Don presses his lips to Coop's chest.

"Kiss me good night," Charlie whispers.

Don shudders, rocking hard into Coop's body. His free hand clenches at Coop's shoulder.

"I'll kiss you good morning instead," Don whispers back and hangs up.

He turns his face into Coop's neck and tenses, back hunching up like a scalded cat. Coop blinks his eyes slowly, eyeing a fresh dent in the ceiling of his truck.

"So…" he trails away.

The air's getting colder, leeching heat from their bodies and the mess of their clothes. Truck still smells like them, though.

"If you'll drive me back to my apartment, I'd appreciate it," Don says quietly.

He pushes up and Coop slides out from under him into the driver's seat. Coop watches Don slump into his seat, covering his eyes with a shaking, dirty, hand. The phone clatters to the floor of the truck.

"Nah," Coop says, swallows. "I think my place is closer. Let's go there."

Slowly, Don's eyes rise. His hand drops to his lap. "Yeah?"

"Well, sure," Coop says. "You're planning a road trip, ain't you?"

Don's chin dips. He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair.

"Well, from here to wherever is pretty damn far," Coop says, scooping his keys off the dash and fitting key to ignition. "Figure you'll need a driving buddy."

 

End.


End file.
